The brilliance of the universal lies in its sheer infinity, the limitlessness of its utility. So "Waterfall" catches its interpreters—apologists, haters, those in-between—in a sort of thankless double bind where we struggle to affix an absolute to something that roundly rejects the notion of absolutes and insists that the depth and breadth of each emotion or gesture is simply endless, beyond the measure or comprehension of mere mortals, to include Coldplay. You think you're confronting Chris Martin and his scruffy band of standard-bearers when in actuality you're confronting the abyss.
Where in the world can one procure a stained-glass, strobe-lit crucifix, and what is the best way to saw such a crucifix in half? And once this has been accomplished—at great expense and difficulty, one imagines—what is a much-reviled conceptual artist to actually feel about the whole sordid affair?
In all the world, there's nothing quite as lonesome and eternal as an exquisitely tuned six-string guitar when it's cradled by a master. How do you say "my plectrum is on the verge of splintering" in Dutch?
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